Final Moments 6: A Passing Glance
by SunstreakersGlitch
Summary: Christophe had a dream once, about a red haired boy who might save him. Slash, Death. Final moments of South Park!


**__Note:  
**Sadly I am not dead, I do live on, Just... Find typing difficult. Here's something to look at while I try to get more posting's up for everything. It'll happen, promise.

**A Passing Glance**

**_We are more often treacherous through weakness than through calculation. ~Francois De La Rochefoucauld_**

* * *

He never thought he would die like this.

Die at the hand of this English piece of shit.

He'd died once before, mauled by guard dogs. He had been fighting a war as his alter ego "Ze Mole" in the service of Stan Marsh and Kyle Brooflovwski. He'd lain in the arms of the red head and whispered words he never thought to say.

Staring at those green eyes, listening to the boy he barely knew beg him to live, he thought, ironically, that dying might not be so bad after all he had fought to live so long. After a brief trip to Hell and then and equally short ride up, he was alive again and Gregory was as well.

He never went back to south park. He couldn't handle it if Gregory tracked him there, destroyed Kyle, and even Stan.

He knew now what love was, knew of the heart beating inside his chest cavity for another's breath. Knew he was living at the will of another. So vulnerable and willing to destroy for one person, self-destructions opposite. If he had fought to live before then he was at war with the world and his mercenary lifestyle to keep himself alive for his own heart's desire, if even he never saw the boy of nine who had become his unwitting life's goal. He never spoke aloud of Kyle, never wrote or visited him.

But still he knew what love was.

He crossed continents and countries in his work. A child mercenary, murderer and assassin. Something living in the dark, thriving on warfare and skirmishes unknown. A place for no child, not even one with a life as his was. He fought for both sides, good and evil. He had no morals. At times he would think back on the timeless redhead, his soulful eyes filled with fire, and wonder.

What would he think?

But he had no other life and no end in sight. This was what he was good at. This was what he could do, and do well. This was all he knew.

Even if he had known what else to do, how could he? With so much blood on his hands and death to his tally he had made enemies, the powerful, the corrupt, the good, the righteous. No one would allow him to escape, as much as he had been pushed into this life, it was his own force behind the moving forward of it. Should he ever settle, dreams of a wild red head and a small house and pets flashed through his way ward mind, he would see it destroyed as soon. Burned down houses, a trail of corpses, blood and death and the total demolition of anything he held precious.

So he lived as he always had, hard cold, and above all else, alone. To protect that which he treasured he had to watch it from afar, to watch it slip through his hands as the sand of an hour glass, every moment farther away.

Dying at the hand of a friend had never even crossed his mind. Then again one should never refer to Gregory as such. He was heartless and ruthless, and so many epithets applied to he and Christophe both, it was never meant to be but a tangled business acquaintanceship.

To Gregory he was nothing more than an obsession, now.

In the beginning it had almost seemed as though he'd found a kindred spirit. Someone to relate to in the lonely life he lead, someone to understand. It was foolish to think he could ever get close to anyone in the world he lived in, even someone so very like him.

They were so similar, and far too different.

Christophe was his replica and opposite both, another child who'd been forced into the work of cold blooded murders. Both had been sold as slave children into this life, in far European lands, to cold hard men, to be used and thrown away as they had been found. They had both proven themselves to worthy and proud, had been found useful, some tool worth being beaten into shape. Both had survived, as they were never meant to and taken to the life with all the tenacity of a savior.

Except the most glaringly obvious difference.

Christophe worked to survive. He had not chosen this life and did not want it. He excelled so he could see the next dawn lit sky. He killed so they didn't win over his life. He destroyed and toppled regime's and forced other children down this path by necessity.

Gregory, however, enjoyed the deaths he caused and the havoc he created. His pride was not in living another day, but in decimating anyone who piqued his interest. He took contracts for the sheer hell of it sometimes.

And Christophe was his biggest thrill.

Most times Christophe could manage to stay ahead of him, A country away, one step to fast for the techno savvy sociopath to catch.

There had been close calls of course.

South Park and the Canadian War.

Milan and the crooked businessmen debacle. A setup masterfully orchestrated from afar by Gregory's connections. But Gregory had been much too distant to enjoy the thrill of Christophe's death then, he had always thought. That wasn't personal enough.

South East Asia and a minor Skirmish between two drug dynasties. Both on the side of the newer generation, working for the same man towards the same goals. To unwilling to start their own vendetta again when it could cost them a win.

And most recently, gunrunners in shipping out from Egypt to Nigeria. Christophe hadn't even been involved, just healing in a local hospital anonymously as possible from another African militia rise gone south. Gregory had happened upon him and given him a new scar, a new fear of a knife blade, and another reason to run faster.

But something had to give eventually. Gregory would always chase and Christophe would always run, it was a deadly game of catch-me-if-you-can. No one had won for years.

Staring into ice blue eyes Christophe wanted to give in to the tears burning there for the first time in years. It wasn't supposed to end this way. He was supposed to be the victor; he was the one who would come out on top.

And just like in any action movie when the good guy killed the bad guy, he would go back and maybe make some sort of life for himself. A life filled with a green eyed redheaded lover, lots of cats, an apartment with no garden or dirt in sight and peace.

He might even have quit smoking.

Eventually.

The eyes he found glaring into his own were filled with triumph, and it was wrong. While his own eyes were focused and assessing the situation Gregory's were filmed over with accomplishment and pride, his gaze lost in the dream of long sought victory. Christophe knew he had no chance of escape. No matter how Gregory seemed lost in thought, no matter how insane he'd become with his obsession, he would notice any attempt at escape.

Christophe held his breath, he knew one false move would snap Gregory from his trance and the trigger his finger was curled around might loosen. And his death would be a fucking accident. No way in hell was that happening. He would wait and plot, hope for some divine, or unholy, seriously he wasn't picky, intervention, and try to survive.

But when those sharp blue eyes filed with emotion and that dexterous hand, so nimble with a blade, tightened he knew no intervention was coming. His world stilled with the sharp kick of a gun and he was forever gone this time.

* * *

Sometimes he thought about the curly haired boy who died in his arms, other times he forgot how his body trembled as he wept over a stranger. But on the last night of Christophe 'Ze Mole's life Kyle was smiling through heavy eyes at the man lying in a bed beside him, dreaming on only of the morning, when they would wake and dine together in their own home, filled with love and happiness.

On the last night of Christophe 'Ze Mole's short life, the man he loved lay in the arms of the man he loved, and slept well.

* * *

**StarGuide2012**


End file.
